Page 5 of The White Picket Fence

They’d found a pulse, and Charlotte had found a little hope.

“About how tall, Mrs. J?” a man asked.

He had a nice voice, Charlotte thought. Melodious and deep. Soothing and peaceful. Familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

“Six feet,” Dottie rasped. “Maybe a little shorter. Average. I’m sorry.”

“Hush now,” the man said gently. “You don’t ever apologize. Never to me. What about his nose?”

Charlotte straightened from where she’d fallen asleep, closing her eyes and swallowing a groan as pain spiked up the back of her neck. It was a usual pain, one that she’d felt several times a day in the years since her car accident, but it never failed to startle her.

A gnarled hand covered hers as the conversation paused.

“Charlie?” Dottie asked. “You okay? You need some ibuprofen?”

That her aunt would be worrying about Charlotte when she was the one in an ICU bed was classic Dottie.

Charlotte forced her lips to curve. Forced her eyes to open so that she could meet Dottie’s concerned gaze. “I’m fine.” She turned to the man sitting on the other side of the bed. “Who’s?—”

Her throat closed so abruptly that, for a moment, she couldn’t breathe.

His voice had been familiar, and now she knew why.

“Tino,” Charlotte whispered.

Tino Ciccotelli. Her first kiss. Her first love.

She’d broken his heart, and for that she’d always hated herself. He hadn’t deserved to be treated the way she’d treated him, but she’d been so desperate to break free. So terrified of what he’d offered. So desperate to fly far, far away.

And here I am. Back where I started.

She’d never fly again, her wings permanently clipped.

Broken. I’m broken.And more than a little bitter.

“Charlotte,” Tino said quietly, his eyes the same rich dark brown that they’d been when he’d been only fifteen, when he’d first kissed her. Sixteen, when he’d first told her he loved her, his words sweet and uncertain. Seventeen, when he’d said they’d get married and have a house with a white picket fence and meatloaf on Wednesdays.

Eighteen, when his eyes had filled with tears and desperation as he’d begged her to change her mind. To keep him.

To stay.

How she’d turned and walked away from him, she’d never know. But she had.

She’d regretted it ever since.

She hoped he’d found love with someone else, because he deserved it. She hoped he didn’t hate her, but she hadn’t missed that he’d called her Charlotte when he’d always called her Charlie.

Did you think he’d be glad to see you?No, she couldn’t expect that. Even though she may have secretly hoped for it whenever she’d pictured herself seeing him again.

He’d changed, of course. He was older, but still so classically beautiful that it hurt her heart. He’d always reminded her of a Michelangelo sculpture, all those years ago. He still did.

He was broader now, more muscled.

Even more handsome, which didn’t seem fair. She was so glad that her scars were covered by her clothing. At least her face looked...well, not the same, but she’d aged pretty well. As had he.

His thick, black hair was longer now, almost reaching his shoulders, its natural curl somewhat straightened by the weight of it. He’d worn it short and curly back then. Both styles complemented his face.

Self-consciously, she smoothed her hair as her gaze fell to the sketch pad in his hands. “You’rethe police sketch artist?”

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